


Buried on the Morrow

by beautifullyheeled



Series: Verehren [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graffiti, Grief/Mourning, Irregulars - Freeform, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, One-Sided Attraction, Survivor Guilt, Unrequited, Vigilante Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HMJhIxG47o You Just Have to Know of Me by Árstíðir</p></blockquote>





	Buried on the Morrow

“Greg, look, I’m telling you… Sherlock was not a fraud.” Anderson shook his head as his fingers spread across the paper of the files. “Richard Brook… Don’t you see? He did not exist! I’ve researched. It’s all falling away, Greg. It is… James Moriarty was  _real_ , damn it. He forced Sherlock to kill himself-”

“Yea, and there’s no real way to prove that, now is there? We’ve got him on cold storage to be cremated and Sherlock is set to be buried tomorrow.” Lestrade had grown exasperated, worn by this already. They still hadn’t finished piecing it all together, and here was one of his best clinging to the last vestiges of hope. “Look we’ll go over it all Friday, alright? Did the techs get anything off of Sherlock’s mobile before it was confiscated?”

“They were able to retrieve the data, but the back-up was taken as well so you’ll have to ask his damn brother when and if he will release the information. How that man has the power he does… that worries me as well. What if it was fratricide?”

“Phillip, enough.” Lestrade rubbed his face. Hard. “I’m exhausted. So are you. Go grab a pint at your local and have a night in, yea. Maybe go see John, he’s not himself.” The silver-haired D.I. sighed heavily as he stood looking over the spread of files. “Leave this here. Lock the door. Go home.”

“It’s been since…” Anderson scowled and hit the table with the flat of his fist. “It’s been almost a week.” The fight left him as he realised, that indeed, that much time had passed. Sherlock had died six days ago and they were no closer to proving anything. “Yes, fine. I’ll go check on him. Wouldn’t want to bury them both… cause more upheaval…” His heart lurched a bit at the callousness of what he said. “I just meant, I know he’s mourning. Heavily.”

He picked up the Grimm’s fairy tales copy that matched the one from the case as well as the Annotated version, stuffing them into his shoulderbag. “Goodnight, Greg.” Clapping his friend on the shoulder he left the room feeling more defeated. There had to be a break. He knew Sherlock had to have died for a purpose. Especially after his and Molly’s findings over Moriarty. He’d done most of the leg work as she had dated the man for chrissakes. He’d killed himself, yet the residue was on both of them. Why?

_Why all the fairy tales? Why the narrative? Was the other man that mad that he felt he were telling his own morality tale?_

Was there something lost in translation?

He took the tube to Baker, not a long trip, but enough to listen to some of the cases on audiofile. The children’s testimony specifically after they’d seen Sherlock. That had really bothered him once he heard. The man was always abrasive, but he’d not seemed the type to honestly kidnap and try to poison children.

The press of people were mainly tourists and those returning home from a night out. He’d not realized it had gone ten. Phillip shook his head as he came above and went towards the Chinese place on the corner. Dinner and imported beer as offering maybe would smooth things so he could check in on John as Lestrade had asked. As he rang the bell, he settled himself mentally, or tried to for the time being. God knows what state John would be in. The door was opened by their, by John’s, landlady welcoming him in and thanking him for coming to see John. Apparently he’d hardly moved all day.

Seventeen steps. Fourth, maybe fifth time here since he’d known the pair. It felt like an intrusion. The weight of it all pressed about him as he knocked on the door of their flat. John’s flat. He shook his head and reminded himself to not slip up like that around John. Rubbing salt in open wounds rarely did anyone any good.

As John opened the door it came to him. 

_Rache…_

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HMJhIxG47o You Just Have to Know of Me by Árstíðir


End file.
